


John's Fall

by merthurpendragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:09:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merthurpendragon/pseuds/merthurpendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had done so much for John. Now it was John's turn to do something for Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John's Fall

The sky was steel gray and promised rain in the near future. The wind was stronger up here, harsher. Instead of brushing up against you like a slight draft, turning the pages of your book, tossing pieces of your hair into your mouth, the wind was persistent, lashing against you, blocked by nothing it seemed to herd you to the edge and over.

 

Which was precisely John Watson’s plan.

 

Nerves had plagued him in the cab, butterflies fluttered about so wildly in his stomach in the stairwell that he’d thought he would get sick then and there. But now, standing on the roof, overlooking the street. Cars drove by, there were a few people strolling along the sidewalks. Life went on, as it always did, even though his had stopped. It had stopped months ago when his best friend stood upon this very building and did the very thing John was about to do: fall.

 

John had tried to go on. He really did. He got a new job and went out a few times with a nice woman he met at a coffee shop one afternoon. But he was plagued by memories, by things left unsaid, by the image of Sherlock Holmes falling off the building and landing on the ground, broken and bloody and dead.

 

John stepped to the barrier and braced his hands against the cool stone. He looked down at the sidewalk.

 

He remembered getting out of the cab. He remembered Sherlock calling him, go back the way you came, talking to him, I’m a fake, telling him things, keep your eyes fixed on me, it’s a note, goodbye John. Sherlock’s name ripped from his throat. And then the fall. Sherlock, falling for a moment and then… the sickening noise. The awful second of disbelief. Then falling himself, being crashed into, falling to the ground. Not real, can’t be real. Have to reach him. Have to get to him. Rushing to Sherlock’s side. A joke, a sick, cruel joke. He’s my friend, let me through. But he was dead. Gone. And so John was dead, gone.

 

John closed his eyes. He’d felt nothing since that day. He’d been numb for months. He zombiewalked through life, through his dates and through his work. The only thing he did willingly was go to Sherlock’s grave where he would stand for hours, watching, waiting, hoping.

 

“You… you didn’t come back,” John said softly. “It’s been months and you’re still gone. What am I supposed to think?” John stepped up onto the ledge of the building, eyes still closed. It didn’t feel like the edge. It didn’t feel like one more step would plunge him to his death. He wondered if this is what it felt like to Sherlock. If Sherlock had been able to feel his death upon him or if it had just felt like taking another step forward.

 

“What am I supposed to _think_?” John looked up at the sky. The wind slapped at him, tearing into his bones and filling it with cold. But the cold didn’t bother John. He’d felt cold for a while now. It was nothing new; he’d grown used to the frozenness deep inside him that never quite went away.

 

“I was so alone,” he whispered. He opened his eyes now, staring up at the sky. He hoped that Sherlock was watching, that he knew what was about to happen, and that he’d meet him at the gate to heaven. “And then I wasn’t. You were there and I wasn’t alone and I lo – ” His voice caught. He’d never said it out loud before but it was true. He swallowed. “I loved you. I love you. And now you’re gone and you’ll never know and I’m alone. It’s worse now. So much worse.”

 

Fat tears rolled down his cheeks. “If you won’t come back, if you’re aren’t coming back, then I will join you. I owe you so much. This is the only way I know to repay you. You helped me and now I’m going to help you. I’ll see you in heaven. Or wherever it is we go. Just please,” he took a deep shuddering breath, “please be there waiting for me.”

 

John shuffled forward a bit so that his toes hung off the edge of the building. His heartbeat thundered madly in his chest. He closed his eyes, spread out his arms, just as he’d seen Sherlock do. It felt like when he was a kid and he’d get up on top of the kitchen table and spread his arms out like wings. He thought he could fly. And he’d always wonder if maybe he _could_ fly if only the table was higher. He wanted to climb to the roof of his house and try but his parents never let him.

 

“Now’s your chance, John,” he muttered to himself, “Now’s your chance to see if you really can fly.”

 

With a deep breath, John readied himself. He relaxed his muscles, cleared his mind of everything but a picture of Sherlock, of a happier time with the man he loved. He opened his eyes one last time, took in the surroundings. A raindrop splashed onto his cheek, the last that ever would. And then John said goodbye and he fell.

 

Time seemed to slow down. The ground seemed so far away. Distantly he thought that he heard his name being yelled and he smiled. Sherlock was going to great him at the gate after all. That was his last thought. The ground rushed up at him and it was over.

 

A woman shrieked. Two cars nearly collided. People from both sides of the streets ran to the aid of the man whose mangled body now lay crumpled on the sidewalk. One man looked up at the rooftops just in time to see what looked like a scarf disappear from the ledge. 


End file.
